


Windows

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Character, polyamorous Hamilton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:39:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Hamilton-centric drabbles, double drabbles, and other miscellaneous short works inspired by both the Chernow biography and the musical. Most of these were inspired by prompts from tumblr users. </p><p>Latest short: John Laurens, after Yorktown</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surrender (fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Lafayette + Hamilton and Laurens being couple-y.

**Prompt: Surrender**

Lafayette is about to pull back the tent flap when he hears Hamilton’s gasp. He hesitates. Then comes a grunt, unmistakably Laurens, and an answering sound of effort from Hamilton. Good Lord, usually they’re more cautious than this…

“Excuse me?” he shouts through the canvas. “I have a message from the General!”

“Come on in.” Laurens’ reply comes far, far too quickly. 

Lafayette enters with his eyes on the ground, raising them only with reluctance; he had wished to maintain plausible deniability where his friends’ relations were concerned. He would take their secret to the grave, but they have only known one another a few months; if they knew that he knew, it would likely be a source of constant worry to them. 

He expects clothing strewn across the floor, rumpled sheets, bodies slick with sweat and marked with kisses. Instead, he finds Hamilton and Laurens fully clothed, seated across from one another, elbows on the tabletop and hands clasped together in a contest of strength. Laurens is winning; Hamilton’s arm is halfway to the tabletop, his wrist shaking with effort even as his grin widens.

“Why are you smiling?” Lafayette asks.

“Laurens can’t—beat me,” Hamilton gasps, voice ragged around the edges. “We’ve been like this—for a good—five minutes.”

“I’ll get you eventually,” Laurens says, with a quiet grimness that is belied by the spark in his eyes. Plausible deniability is becoming more difficult by the second.

“How soon is eventually?” Lafayette says. “Congress has ordered—“

Laurens looks up, instantly hostile; Hamilton makes a startled noise. Even though his forearm is no closer to the table, his wrist is being bent back. “Ow! Ow! I give up! Stop!”

Laurens releases his hand instantly. “Sorry!” He hurries around the table, kneeling and taking Hamilton’s hand in his, gently moving the wrist. “Does that hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine, John,” Hamilton chuckles, ruffling Laurens’ hair. “You need to conceal your feelings on Congress a little better.” He shoots Lafayette a sideways smile, a sly confirmation of the double entendre, and Lafayette surrenders the notion of plausible deniability at last.


	2. Surrender (angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An actual 100-word drabble this time. Lams, warnings for internalized homophobia.

**Prompt: surrender**

 

Fall is coming on, and every day Laurens spends with Hamilton is a battle. Simply not acting on his feelings is not enough. There are a thousand ways to slip, and a single moment of weakness could spell ruin. A double life he cannot bear; he prefers a double mind, with the flawed part of himself shut away, forgotten if it can be forgotten, observed if it cannot. Though he does not quite succeed, he comes close. Only when he wakes in the night half-dreaming does he surrender, and allow himself to cherish the faint smile on Hamilton’s sleep-soft face.


	3. Reconcile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton's polyamory manifesto.

**Prompt: reconcile**

Traveling he feels it most keenly, when he inevitably grows nearer to Eliza as he grows farther from John, or nearer to John as he grows farther from Eliza. Martial glory, domestic peace; man, woman; love, love. His heart pulls both ways, and the joy of anticipation and pain of separation wax together in both directions. 

He loves them both, God save him. He loves them both. Yet he feels fiercely that this is not some hideous fault in his essence, some sin to be atoned for. Love does not contradict itself; there is no paradox here to be reconciled. 


	4. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton suffers testosterone poisoning at the Battle of Yorktown.

**Prompt: scream**

Hamilton felt like a dead man resurrected: shocked and giddy and overflowing with fierce animal joy. Ten minutes ago he’d been charging a heavily-fortified position with nothing but a fixed bayonet, and yet here he was, gasping clouds into the cold night air, and Redoubt Ten was in American hands.  

Laurens appeared before him, hauling him into an exultant embrace. “It’s ours,” he said. “Ham, we did it, it’s ours! We won!”

No words came to him as he seized Laurens’ hand and thrust it into the air. He screamed in triumph, and four hundred Continental soldiers answered in kind.  


	5. Negotiate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens and Lafayette bond over their pathological need to defend Washington's honor.

**Prompt: negotiate**

 

“’is name does not matter,” said the newcomer, as airily as he could with Laurens’ handkerchief stuffed up his bleeding nose. “The gentleman and I ‘ave settled the question.”

“What question?” Laurens asked. Lafayette had arrived in camp two days ago; if he was already brawling, it boded ill for his eventual acceptance. 

“We simply negotiated as to the proper degree of respect to be afforded to General Washington.”

“Ah.” Laurens had once or twice been tempted issue challenge on the subject himself, so he understood the impulse, unfortunate as it was. “And your nose?”

Lafayette shrugged. “Negotiations grew… ‘eated.”


	6. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no evidence that James Monroe attempted to apologize to Eliza in the immediate aftermath of the Reynolds Affair. But if he had, I imagine it would have gone… poorly. This one’s a double drabble. No warnings.

**Prompt: sorry**

 

James Monroe removed his hat as he approached the house. “A word with you, if I may?”

Mrs. Hamilton looked confused to see him there, but inclined her head slightly. Well, she had not spat in his face yet, and that was something.

Taking her gesture as permission to approach, he stepped onto the porch.  “Mrs. Hamilton, I do not regret my role in the exposure of your husband’s—of his entanglement with Mrs. Reynolds. I considered it my duty to expose a potential breach of the public trust. For the pain I have inflicted upon you and your children, however, I am sorry.”

He searched her face for some reaction, but Elizabeth Hamilton had remained perfectly still, her eyes glittering like chips of black ice. She said, “Mr. Monroe, if you gave a fig for the _public_ over your accursed _party_ you would never have attempted to harm my husband. His honor is unimpeachable where—where their welfare is concerned, at least.” Her mouth twisted, and she fled into the house. The door slammed shut in Monroe’s face, and he realized, with sour disappointment, that he felt guiltier now than if he had not tried to apologize at all.


	7. Realization (Laurens)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double drabble: Laurens realizes Hamilton loves him. Angst, period-typical societal homophobic attitudes. Contains a direct quote from one of Hamilton's letters to Laurens.

_Cold in my professions – warm in my friendships – I wish, my Dear Laurens, it were in my power, by actions rather than words, to convince you that I love you._

Laurens swallowed, smoothing the letter with trembling hands. It seemed Hamilton was even bolder on the page than in person—perhaps fatally bold.

Part of Laurens longed to reply with equal boldness. _My dear boy, your words have convinced me well enough, but I admit that the thought of such actions as you might take—_

At the sight of the ink on the page, Laurens felt a wave of nausea. There was no playful ambiguity here; he was not a sprite with words, could not offer an innocent-enough face to the world while concealing lust beneath. Letters were permanent, spoken words ephemeral. Why could Hamilton not make himself content with those? Why did he insist upon this dangerous route, when anyone—when history—might learn of their secret?

He fed the paper to a candle’s flame, and kept his words locked in his heart. Hamilton’s letter nearly followed, but Laurens could not bear to burn Hamilton’s _I love you_.

 _Damn you, my dear boy_ , he thought, _I love you too_.


	8. Realization (Hamilton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton realizes Laurens loves him. Fluff.

Most of the candles had burnt out, and likewise aides-de-camp; only Hamilton and Laurens were still scribbling, and Laurens only because he had vowed to keep Hamilton company. Hamilton yawned, and Laurens, who had not managed a coherent sentence in the last hour, decided enough was enough, seating himself by Hamilton. “Lean on me, Ham. Just for a moment.”

Hamilton, too sleepy to argue, obeyed; an instant later he was snoring. Laurens scooped him up and carried them both to bed.

Hamilton woke with Laurens’ arm over him. “You love me,” he whispered. Laurens only smiled and drew him closer.


	9. Petrichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet Lams drabble set after Laurens’ death. No warnings.

After his mother died Hamilton kept her memory folded in the pages of their family Bible with the smell of her hair, but the Bible was lost somewhere along the way, and with it he lost her. Until this morning he had wondered if he would lose Laurens, too, memory anchorless even as grief rent his heart, but here is his anchor: petrichor and pine, the damp fresh earth-smell of the morning, the scent of a hundred muddy campsites. He will not lose Laurens like he lost his mother; will find his memory everywhere there is the smell of rain.


	10. Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Laurens gets really hungry at Valley Forge, laughs at an inappropriate moment, and learns to check his privilege. Contains Lams. Warnings for (involuntary) coping with food deprivation. Canon era, 300 words.

They are all on short common now that the snows have set in, and though John hates to admit it, he is growing lightheaded now that the sun has set. He mounts the stairs to the low-slung attic room where Washington’s aides sleep, pausing at the landing to steady himself.

“Are you well, Laurens?” Hamilton.

“Fine.” Laurens clutches his stomach as hunger pangs hit. “Lord have mercy,” he laughs, somewhat punch-drunk and trying to distract from the fact that his stomach is growling fit to wake the dead.

“The pain subsides after a few hours,” Hamilton says casually. “If you want to trick yourself into thinking you’ve eaten, you can try drinking several glasses of water.”

“Does that work?”

“Better than nothing,” Hamilton shrugs. “Or you could suck a pebble.”

John laughs; his mind had leapt straight to a whole different category of things Hamilton might suggest he suck, such that the word “pebble” takes on all the qualities of a spectacularly-delivered punchline.

Hamilton reddens slightly. “Suit yourself.” He shoulders past Laurens to the stairs.

Laurens stays on the landing, puzzling it out.

Oh. _Oh_. Hamilton thought Laurens was laughing at his hunger-dispelling tricks. Laurens will have to apologize for that; Hamilton hates to be made a mockery of. 

Some time near the beginning of their acquaintance, Hamilton had taken Laurens aside and said, _I pray that you would refrain from asking about my youth. The more I can leave it behind, the happier we will all be._ Laurens, with secrets of his own, obeys that commandment. Yet evidently Hamilton’s past acquainted him intimately with desperate hunger. His heart wrenches with pity for the boy Hamilton was: alone, motherless, starving.

_He is right to want to leave that life behind him,_ Laurens thinks, _and I wish I had not learned why._


	11. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I guess to understand this you need to know that Hamilton was actually really sick the winter Valley Forge happened, and ended up staying with a local family to recuperate and not joining camp until late January. No warnings, Lams, 100 words.

Laurens rises when Hamilton steps in, bundled until he can hardly raise his arms and dusted with snow. Hamilton’s ride stretched into the evening, the morning’s departure delayed by illness, and in the falling winter dark the candlelight doesn’t reach Laurens’ face. Doubtless he’s angry that Hamilton did not come sooner, that much of His Excellency’s requirements have fallen on him.

“I apologize–” Hamilton begins, clearing his throat roughly.

Laurens steps toward him. “God, Alexander, let me look at you.” He raises the candle. The gesture illuminates his own face, and Hamilton sees nothing in his eyes but frank relief.


	12. Someone Will Sing for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this idea came from a random prompt generator that I put together over on tumblr (I'm philly-osopher, come say hi!) using people's birthdays. Technically this is from herowndeliverance's birthday, which she was gracious enough to loan to me. Prompt was "Maria Reynolds writes a tell-all pamphlet about her relationship with Aaron Burr."

**I.**

It is a peculiar feature of the character of Aaron Burr that he designed to move through history with such stealth, such catlike quiet, that when at last he broke, and shattered that quiet, there was no note he had made before that might speak to his character. He was known only for the explosion, for the heart-stopping silence that followed. The melody he cut short. 

 

**II.**

In a way I am the same, known more for damage wrought than lines composed (such lines I wrote; I hardly remember them now)– for disharmonies inspired, for dropped notes and miscounted beats and, and _lurches_. I sang who I was, but was overwritten. Drowned out. This was Alexander’s power, that he could tell my story, that I could pass a pamphleteer and hear the echoes of my own voice, transformed with smoke and desire. _I know you are a man of honor_ …

I had a daughter.

 

**III.**

It is in no way my intention to exonerate the actions of Aaron Burr. Nor is it my intention to tell all that passed between us. I have been sung over once; I will not suffer to see it happen again. 

All I will say is this: when I entered his office, with my daughter and my shame; when I asked for his help (as I had once asked for the help of another); when I came to him, not intending to pour out my misery and abjection, but only seeking to divorce myself from the man who had tormented me for years, who had ruined me, who had coached the disastrous notes I sang to Alexander; when I could sing no more, but could only cry out in indignity at the chorus’s _say no to this_ , as though I were a _this_ , a temptation to be refused and not a person to be loved–

He listened.


	13. Peacock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catalpa-waltz asked for the story of how Alex named his horse Peacock! That's... almost what I wrote :P

It’s about as hot and humid as Eliza’s ever felt it upstate, and she’s sweating just from standing on the shaded porch. The flowers out front are in full bloom, the younger children gamboling about in the dirt, and Eliza’s content to let them wear themselves out playing.

Alexander, the madman, is out there in the full sun, riding a circuit of the property with Phillip to test the manners of his new horse. Then again, her husband laughs off Northern heat.

From the west pasture comes the thunder of hooves, and then a long-legged bay horse comes flying over the wooden fence, closely followed by a dapple gray. On the back of the bay horse is her husband, who is undoubtedly a _fool_ to ride like that when the earth is still muddy after this morning’s showers. The dapple gray is ridden by her son, who is seventeen and old enough to _also know better_ , although she supposes she must factor in Alexander’s influence. Phillip idolizes his father; there’s no danger he wouldn’t follow him into.  

Alexander brings his horse, Peacock, to a halt, and Phillip follows with Gigue a moment later, both laughing. Then Alexander, seeming to sense Eliza’s disapproval, turns to the porch with an apologetic grin.

Eliza sits up straighter. She won’t play the nag, but she will glare. Alexander knows exactly what he did wrong. Now if he will only explain to Phillip that—

“Ma-aa,” Phillip says, “don’t be like—”  

“Now, Phillip, your mother’s right, we shouldn’t—”

“Come on, Dad, it was the horse’s idea anyway.” Peacock gives an indignant snort, like he knows he’s being blamed and won’t consent to it. “Anyway,” Phillip continues, with an insouciant grin, “what’s the point in having a Peacock, if you don’t let yourself strut every so often?”


	14. Theo Sr., waiting impatiently for something

“Theodosia,” Aaron says, very solemnly. “I was wondering if you might do me the great honor of–”

“Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. Good God, I thought you’d never ask!” Theodosia says.

Aaron gives her a look like his heart has stopped dead. “I–” He swallows. Theodosia is suddenly aware that they’re in the middle of a public park, walking arm in arm (and she still in her widow’s black) and that she said that very loudly. Curious people are looking their way. 

“… you weren’t going to ask, were you?”

Instead of answering, he gets down one one knee, to the gasps of the crowd. He has no ring. He fumbles with his pocket-watch, perhaps wondering if it will make an acceptable substitute. “Theodosia, will you… um…”

She swoops down and kisses him on the forehead. “Why so nervous, darling?” she asks. “I’ve already said yes.”


	15. Martha Manning, someone's worst fear

Frances appears in a flood of whimpers and the patter of small feet. It’s no matter– Martha wasn’t asleep anyway, was up reading the latest romance novel that her father sighs over and her mother calls escapist trash. It isn’t that she wants to escape her life, not really, although sometimes she does wish that John could be a little more like the men in her books, and a little bit less like… well. She just wishes she could have a moment to herself, one not subject to interruptions by her nightmare-prone daughter. “Come here, then, love, did you have a bad dream?”

Frances clambers up into the bed and clamps onto her mother like she never intends to let go. “Yes,” she sniffles.

“Well, what was it, then?”

“We went to the seaside with grandmother only when I looked down you were in the water and I looked at you under the water and you were going farther and farther away…”

Martha hugs Frances tight. “Don’t worry, darling,” she soothes. “Mummy’s right here. Mummy’s staying.”


	16. Lams, a stolen kiss

“Colonel Hamilton,” Laurens says. “A moment to discuss strategy, if you would.”

His voice is soft in the night air, the mists around their feet dampening it further. After the raucous chorus of cicadas and crickets succumbed to the last cold snap, Yorktown at night has felt quiet indeed. It is now fall, and one way or another they will not remain much longer.

Hamilton steps away with him, walking until they are between two tents. It is hardly cover at all: if anyone looked closely, they could see, and perhaps that is why Laurens only lingers for a moment on the kiss.

“Fight well, my dear boy,” he says.


	17. Lams, an absent look or touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of suicide.

His captors are kind to him, and he wishes they would not be. With his own money he is allowed to secure space at an inn in Philadelphia, and there he waits and tries to think of reasons to live, and the list comes up shorter and shorter every day. The only one he comes back to is that if he kills himself they will have won. 

He writes to Hamilton, on a day he is able. He doesn’t make a copy. He doesn’t even remember exactly what he wrote.

Hamilton’s reply comes fast. He must have written back the very same day he got the letter. Laurens imagines him holding the postman back, making him wait. He hopes it was not too much bother. 

At first he doesn’t even open the letter. Just holds it with shaking hands, and stares at his name in Hamilton’s handwriting, and remembers another reason to live. Although his own world has shrunk down to Pennsylvania, he must remember that in the wide spaces beyond it, Hamilton exists. 

He cannot bear for Hamilton to think him a coward.

Though the British officers have been mostly leaving him to his own business, one of them calls on him that evening, to ask him if he is up for a game of draughts in the tavern. This officer is a handsome man, and some sixth sense informs Laurens that he wants more than just his friendship. Laurens accepts the offer, because he is well enough to know that an evening in company would do him good, and as he leaves his room he absently brushes his fingers over Hamilton’s letter on his desk, a _thank you_ and _I hear you, friend_ and a _never fret, my dear, I will be true_ all in one. 

The British officer smiles at him, something wistful and defeated there. “A letter from some lady love?” 

Laurens answers, “Yes.”


	18. the terms of surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is deeply depressed in this chapter. Contains references to historical slavery.

The guns are still and the war is over. Cornwallis’ sword, surrendered; guns, surrendered; paroles, surrendered. It’s a strange feeling, being on the winning side for once. Dictating terms. Making it to the end of the battle unwounded.

John leaves supper early. He feels sick.

( _You will have to surrender our slaves._ John had said that. _John_ had said that.)

The war is over. They’re free. Well, _they’re_ not free, never will be, now, but

(John’s drunk. Perhaps that’s why he feels sick. _Not yet_ , Washington had said. _Not. Yet._ )

A-after the war (because that’s what this is now), just after supper, Alexander finds his way to John’s room. Without asking he kneels down by John’s bed, takes his face between his hands, and kisses him. His hands and his lips are strong; his face is shining. He’s beautiful, he’s so, so beautiful and he’s so, so happy because he’s won and he’s made a name and a place and a home for himself. He always thinks one step ahead, Alex. Always one eye on _after the war_.

Suddenly for a moment it doesn’t matter. John surrenders completely–and oh, that feels familiar, more familiar than anything he’s done all day–to Alexander, lets himself loose in a way he hasn’t dared before. Lets Alex cover him with kisses, kisses back just as fiercely, lets the words spill out, _I love you_ , only the truth _I love you_ , breath to breath _I love you_ , skin on his skin _I love you I love you I love you_. The words mean nothing. There’s nothing left to keep them apart anymore, and nothing to keep them together. The war is over now– and he and Alexander weren’t fighting the same war, were they? Can’t have been, if Alexander is this happy. But John’s war is over.

John’s war is over, and he’s lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to reblog on tumblr, please do so from [here](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/164931549849/the-terms-of-surrender). Thanks!
> 
>  


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